Dispatches From the Home Front: Ubiquitous green monster

The yogurt was the pinnacle — or the nadir, depending on one’s perspective on culinary absurdity.

A couple of weeks ago, when Trader Joe’s Fearless Flyer advertised something called “Avocado Citrus Greek Whole Milk Yogurt,” I knew all hope of common sense was forever lost.

We are, it is clear, firmly entrenched in the Age of the Avocado.

I grew up eating avocados, guacamole one of the first things I learned to prepare from my mother, born as far south in Texas as it was possible to go.

In the Midwest in the 1960s, we were still a decade or so away from sliced avocado on sprouted sandwiches a la California. But when it arrived, I embraced it wholeheartedly, just as my friends and I devoured the ubiquitous five-layer dip — refried beans, salsa, cheese, guacamole, sour cream — at the bar we frequented in graduate school.

At some point, though, probably with a guacamole-laden chip halfway to my mouth, it occurred to me that my habitual post-avocado swollen lip might be something to pay attention to.

In those days, questions asked of experts took the place of a quick Google search, and so it took allergy testing for me to reluctantly accept that I was allergic to avocados.

There were worse allergens, much harder to avoid (I’m looking at you, hazelnut coffee in every single coffee shop in the country from 1978-1989). I stopped eating guacamole, and the risk of the fat lip went away.

Until, one fine day, Good Fats leapt out of their petri dishes to throw Bad Fats off the food pyramid. Suddenly, there were new equations.

Enter instead the delightful pleasures of the Mediterranean diet, high in olive oils and fresh vegetables and nuts, fish and legumes.

Following right behind olive oil, the new Goddess of Fats, was the avocado, olive oil’s best friend.

First, avocados took up residence in some logical places: in salads, as a sandwich filling, and, of course, in Mexican restaurants that now felt compelled to offer guacamole in 39 different flavors.

In addition, every piece of sushi in the Northeast included a small oblong of avocado, tightly wrapped within its casing of rice and nori.

Fine.

Then, a few years ago, avocado toast became a thing. Made by spreading a thick layer of smashed avocado spread on artisan toast, it began to clutter up menus in hip coffee houses and cafes.

From there, it was a straight shot to avocado-based smoothies, the easily blended green fruit providing a healthy dose of good fats along with the usual berries and greens, doctored with protein powder and spirulina for eternal life.

I learned to ask questions when I ordered anything even remotely green in color. Caution protected me from avocado soup, avocado hummus and avocado ice cream. Avocado pizza — replacing the tomato sauce for some insane reason — was also pretty easy to identify.

At that point, however, avocado turned chameleon. It showed up in chocolate mousse, easily disguised. It slid into cakes, replacing butter. Someone decided it was a good idea to put it into banana bread and fold it into scrambled eggs.

Recently, I ran across a recipe for what I assumed was a mint chocolate layer bar, only to discover that the green layer was you-know-what blended with coconut butter.

A recent search for “avocado recipes” revealed that people are frying, roasting, grilling and all but consuming it intravenously.

And it should come as a surprise to exactly no one that there is a new all-avocado bar in Brooklyn called Avocaderia, which opened this past April. It serves toasts, salads, bowls and smoothies and, from a brief glance at its website, a healthy dose of avocado proselytizing.